He stepped back from the window, lost in thought, then, feeling a light tug on his trousers, lowered his arm slowly towards the young child bouncing on his tiptoes by his side. He gently ruffled the mop of soft dark curls that met his hand. "Granddad, who were you waving to?" Miles turned to meet the curious bright eyes of his four-year-old grandson, scrutinising his every move. "Just a couple of children, Henry." "Do we know them, Granddad?" "No, we don't," Miles paused, "but I don't think that should stop us, do you?"

"Come back to the table. If you spend any more time at the window your food will get cold." Miles crossed the room and sank into the chair beside his daughter. His grandson pulled himself up into a chair next to him. Turning to face Sylvie, Miles spoke softly. "Do you know that their faces light up when I wave to them? I want to reach out and show them that the world is not as alien and unfriendly as it may sometimes seem." Sylvie smiled, before returning her attention to her roast dinner.

Thomas pulled the two ends of the bright red ribbon into a bow, while James stuck a wad of tape over the top of the envelope holding the card, securing it to the neatly wrapped cookie jar that Thomas had made in Design class. They had filled it with freshly baked gingerbread biscuits. "There! All done, Mom!" James announced, his face beaming. "Now all we need to do is drop it off!" Martha watched as her children tripped over each other down the hallway. She looked at the Calendar and smiled. This time of the year was all about family and connection and, to top it off, Calvin would be back today. She grabbed her keys and followed her children out the door.

Miles stared at the 24th circled on his calendar. It was Christmas Eve. He heard the doorbell chime and shuffled his way to the entrance of the apartment. As he drew closer, the familiar sound of his daughter's voice reached his ears. "Hey Dad, we're here! Merry Christmas." He pictured her laden with parcels. She loved Christmas as much as her mother. When he opened the door, a wave of nostalgia wafted in; the perfect balance of nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and allspice. Every year Sylvie made her mom's favourite Christmas Day dessert. She insisted. Miles knew it wasn't just about the pie. It was about the memories, and he loved her for it. "Merry Christmas, my darlings," he whispered, squeezing them both tightly, before stepping aside to let them in.

He was about to close the door when he saw the neatly wrapped parcel tied together with a bright red bow. An envelope was affixed to the top. His eyes flicked back and forth along the length of the corridor. He had only moved here a few years before and didn't know many people. He picked up the parcel and deposited it on the dining table. Intrigued, he opened the envelope to find a handmade card.

To the man in the window...

Thank you for being one of the few constants in our life. Your presence always brings a little joy to our day.

From a tired mom and her two young bundles of energy in the white S.U.V. at 3.45 pm.

PS: If you have nothing planned for Christmas day, we'd love to have you over for lunch. Feel free to message me on the number below.

Miles steadied himself, closed the card, and prepared to open the gift, taking great care not to tear the wrapping. He pulled the paper back revealing a small glazed pottery jar. Turning it over in his hands, he admired the rough imperfections in the design, before opening the lid to reveal the baked cookies. He took one out and bit into its slightly chewy centre, releasing the spicey warmth of its flavour. Then he sat down at the table and leaned into his chair. The cookie tasted like home. Memories of the kind of love that went into creating this exceptional gift consumed him. A salty stream gathered in the puffy creases of his eyes. Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, the table swam back into focus together with its centrepiece - three bunches of freshly cut flowers in a glass vase. His gaze shifted to the three empty chairs around the table.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the warmth of his wife's hand nestled within his own, or catch the sound of his daughter clattering away in the kitchen. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the tinkling of his grandson's laugh bringing his apartment back to life. It was hard to accept that they were gone; that tragedy had struck so soon after the loss of his Evelyn. Most days, it was easier to imagine that they were still there.

He heard the ping from the kitchen and got up to retrieve the TV dinner from the microwave. At least tonight he had cookies for dessert! He finished his meal and picked up the card again. Then he reached for his phone and typed out a brief message.

Thank you for the lovely cookies. Your kindness is so appreciated. I have plans for tomorrow, but perhaps another time. Merry Christmas, from the man in the window.

The next morning, Miles rose early. He made some sandwiches and a flask of tea and placed them inside in a carrier bag with a packet of peanuts. He took the three bunches of flowers from the vase on the dining table, affixed a small Christmas tag to each of them, and headed out to the local church in the village. The Memorial Garden was quiet. He sat down on a bench, shut his eyes and allowed the warmth of the morning sun to wash over him. His memories came in waves, ebbing back and forth. He had been blessed with a beautiful life. With his wife, it was the natural order of things that one would survive the other. One cannot defy the aging process forever. In many ways, despite his sadness, Miles was happy that he had survived her. At least she would never have to endure the pain of loss he felt each time he rolled onto the cold side of the bed. His daughter and grandsons' passing had been more cruel and unexpected; the result of a DUI driver getting behind the wheel and losing control at the roundabout. That day Emergency Services had taken too long.

Sitting on the bench, a familiar birdsong broke the silence, bringing him back to the present. He opened his eyes and spied a lone starling squeaking and warbling in a nearby tree. As the church bell chimed for midday, Miles laid down his flowers, unwrapped a sandwich, and opened his flask of tea. Christmas lunch with his loved ones. In all his years he had never missed one.

The starling swooped down from the tree and landed a few feet away. It hopped tentatively towards him, willing crumbs to drop from his mouth. Miles opened the bag of peanuts and placed a handful in the middle of the bench. The bird made short measure of them before retreating to the safety of the tree, where it whistled and chattered as it flitted from branch to branch. By nightfall it would take flight, seeking and finding sanctuary with its flock. There was a time for everything.

Miles took one last sip from his flask and put his half-eaten sandwich away. He knew he needed to test his wings again. It was time. He pulled out his phone and, taking a moment to steady his hands, typed out another message.

There's been a change of plans. If it's not too late, I'd love to join you for Christmas lunch.

This story is in response to The Ink Well fiction prompt #127 window. It's been another effort stretched over months. I have come back from time to time to revisit, rework, and re-edit. It's not ideal but at least I'm writing. The ending changed half a dozen times over the past month alone. I'm not sure the present ending is the best of them, or whether the overall balance is there, but it's the ending that worked enough for me this evening to place my final full-stop and hit the publish button. As I read it one last time, I consider that it may still be a tad sentimental. I'm not sure anymore. Perhaps I've just spent way too much time chasing my tail on it. I was starting to feel like it was holding me hostage, so tonight, I let it go. I need to move on to the next one!

Header image of 'Starlings at Sunset' created in Canva Pro using:

Image 1 by drakuliren
and
Image 2 by rakesh sharma

Colours in Nature - The Changing Colours of Sunset

How to spot a starling murmuration

The Charms of Starlings: A Tale of Intelligence, Adaptability, and Beauty

Dreemport banner used with permission of @dreemsteem and @dreemport and designed by @jimramones